


get a little closer

by toqueso



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Science Experiments, friendship pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toqueso/pseuds/toqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No! No, I don’t want to control him or anything like that,” Skye interrupts, feeling the situation spiral out of control. “Don’t you have like…a less intense version of that?” She gestures at the offending test tube, still in Simmons’ hand. “Like, a friendship pollen or something. Something that won’t get me sued under every sexual harassment or rape law that ever existed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	get a little closer

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: all the characters in this work of fiction belong to Marvel.
> 
> Super big shout-out/thank you to my bestest friend and beta, Texas!

“I think Ward hates me,” Skye announces as she flounces into the lab.

“What? Oh, I don’t think—ah, please don’t touch that!” Simmons looks up from her microscope long enough to say, before peering back into the lens.

Skye straightens from the bench she was leaning on. Now that she looks at it, the green paint she was touching looks a bit like blood. Considering it looks like it’s leaking out of a severed appendage…Skye checks the back of her sweatshirt for any smoking or weird mutations. Nope. All the same, she sheds her jacket and continues to back away until she finds another table to lean on.

“No, seriously,” Skye says, shifting a bit closer to the other woman. “I mean, I thought we were getting closer with the whole tough-love routine—but every time I try to hang out, he brushes me off.” Exhibit A: every training session they ever have together.

“Maybe he’s just trying to be professional,” Simmons suggests, clearly still distracted with whatever specimen she’s looking at. Is it…still moving? Skye decides she doesn’t want to know. “I mean, he _is_ your S.O.”

“It wouldn’t kill him to be _friendly_.” Skye pauses, imagines Ward trying to be friendly, and instead remembers his deeply pathetic attempt at bromancing that Russian guard. “Well, it might.”

Simmons (finally, finally) tears herself away from her microscope. “Fitz,” she calls, “can you help us with this?”

“Wait, wait, no, I didn’t need—“ but whatever Skye wants, apparently, is irrelevant: Fitz comes bounding over, looking like an overgrown golden retriever puppy.

“Yes?”

“How would you make somebody friendlier?” Simmons asks, tapping the counter with a gloved hand.

Fitz looks askance at Skye. “Anybody in particular?”

“Ward,” Simmons says, before Skye can stop her.

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Skye mutters, sinking deeper and deeper into her fuzzy slippers.

“Ward?” Fitz pales a bit. “Well, he’s…”

The three of them stand in silence for a moment, slumped against various surfaces. “You know, I think I might have something,” Simmons in her "I've invented something new" voice.

“Really?” Skye asks, equal parts skepticism and wariness.

“Oh yes!” Simmons claps her hands together, delightedly. “Yes, I’ve got just the thing.” She ducks down and begins rummaging through the cabinets below her. “It’s in here…somewhere…”

“Make sure not to knock over the hydrochloric acid,” Fitz chimes in, and Skye begins to feel the pangs of serious regret. Maybe if she edged out slowly now, they wouldn’t notice her…

“Got it!” Simmons launches herself back up, her head barely missing the side of the table. Her hair is a bit frazzled and her cheery smile portends of some nuclear-level disaster waiting to happen. She brandishes a blacked-out test tube labeled “HIGHLY TOXIC” at Skye. “This will do the trick quite nicely.”

“Er.” Skye takes the test tube gingerly, praying to god that it hasn’t leaked. “What is this, exactly?”

“Oh it’s, ah…” Simmons looks at Fitz, who eyes Skye a bit nervously. “Hm, well, it affects microtubule-motor protein interactions so that—“

Sensing the incoming science-babble, Skye makes a cutting motion with her free hand. “Kiddie-version explanation, please.”

“It’s a sort of…sex pollen, I suppose,” Fitz says, clenching his hands a bit.

“What?!” Skye gapes, and immediately shoves it back to Simmons, who looks a bit hurt. “No, I mean…that’s really kind of you, but I don’t really want to…you know, _do_ him.”

Fitz and Simmons look at each other dubiously. Some freaky telepathy thing going on there, as per usual. “Well, of course you don’t,” Simmons says soothingly, as if she’s talking to a child. “I mean, it would be nice—if you wanted to net us the winnings—but…”

“Wait, there’s a _betting pool_ about this—“

“So if not the sex pollen, what would you like?” Fitz asks. He brightens. “I could implant a neural device, if you wanted. Or maybe a sort of monitoring chip, like every time he thinks unkind thoughts it’ll beep and you’ll know—“

“Then he’d be incessantly beeping at her, Fitz, don’t you see it’s got to be organic to be implemented permanently—“ Simmons argues.

“No! No, I don’t want to control him or anything like that,” Skye interrupts, feeling the situation spiral out of control. “Don’t you have like…a less intense version of that?” She gestures at the offending test tube, still in Simmons’ hand. “Like, a friendship pollen or something. Something that won’t break every sexual harassment law that ever existed.”

Simmons hems and haws for a moment. “Yes, I think…I think that might be possible. Something to induce friendship, right?” She turns abruptly to another table, snatching up a few tools that look terrifyingly like torture devices for mice. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll whip something up for you.” She hunches over some machine, mumbling to herself.

“She’ll be like this for the next few hours,” Fitz advises. “Why don’t you go relax in the meantime?” He smiles in a way that is obviously meant to be comforting, but all Skye feels is impending doom.

“Right,” Skye breathes, and slouches her way back to her room, where she can cuddle with her laptop in peace.

* * *

 

Despite her apprehension, Skye does return to the lab to find Fitzsimmons eagerly beaming at her. It’s a bit frightening. “Go alright?” Skye asks.

“Oh yes! It’s worked quite nicely; come over here and see…” Simmons pulls her over with one gloved hand (stained with some substance Skye never wants to know about) and motions towards a fine yellow powder on top of a waxy paper square. “It affects the brain, you see, so instead of—“ Simmons cuts herself short, seeing Skye’s glazed look. “It, um. It’ll make him friendlier. All you need to do is dissolve it in water and let it permeate his skin.”

“So what? I spill my drink on him ‘by accident’?” Skye asks.

Fitz ponders this for a moment. “Actually, I think I have a spray bottle around here somewhere. Let me see…” he hunts around in the upper shelves for a minute before coming up with a spray bottle. “I think this will work."

“Isn’t that the thing they use to punish dogs?” Skye asks, taking it and gripping the nozzle.

Fitzsimmons shrug in tandem.

“Okay,” Skye says, and Simmons smiles.

“Oh, this will tip the scales very nicely in our favor,” Simmons says, gathering up the powder in a beaker. She restraps her goggles on and gropes around until Fitz hands her a glass stirring rod and a bottle of water. Nodding gratefully at him, Simmons pours water in the beaker and stirs until a faint, pink vapor begins rising out of the beaker.

“Not that we have ulterior motives or anything,” Fitz hastily assures Skye. “It’s just that the pot has grown large indeed and we _would_ like a new sensor to replace the one that Ward destroyed.”

“What, so the future of your equipment lies in the success of my sex life?” Skye jokes.

“To put it bluntly, yes,” Simmons says, handing Skye the beaker. Skye’s grin fades. “But no pressure or anything!” Simmons smiles, again.

Skye wonders if she should feel a bit worried. Oh well. She tips the beaker’s contents into the spray bottle and caps it firmly. “Wish me luck,” Skye says faintly.

Fitzsimmons nod obediently as Skye takes a breath and walks off to the direction of the lounge, where Ward probably is. She pretends to ignore their whispers of “do you think we could get this recorded?” and “I’ll bet you a centrifuge it goes awry.”

Ward is indeed relaxing in a chair with a tall stack of wooden blocks in front of him. It takes Skye a beat to realize that he is actually playing Jenga by himself. She can’t decide if that’s terribly adorable or a bit heartbreakingly lonely—perhaps both. “Hey,” she greets, quickly hiding the spray bottle behind her back.

“Hey,” Ward says, uncertainly. He peers at her suspiciously. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing, nothing! Don’t let me interrupt your…Jenga-time,” Skye gestures vaguely towards the structure. He’s managed to balance the entire thing on one block, which is pretty impressive. Or sad.

Ward begins to get out of his chair. “Skye, seriously—“ There’s a frown on his face, which bodes well for no one.

Here goes nothing, Skye thinks, and takes a deep breath. As fast as she can, she whips the spray bottle out in front of her. Ward freezes, for a moment, before reaching to grab it—but that split moment is all Skye needs. She squeezes the handle and Ward is full-on spritzed in the face with friendship solution. “Bleh,” Ward coughs.

Skye sprays him again a few times for good measure before tossing the bottle to the ground. She shifts her weight from foot to foot uncertainly as Ward recoils, writhing on the armchair. “Hey…you okay?” She asks, leaning forward.

Ward opens his eyes to glare at her. They’re a bit bloodshot. “What the hell was that?” He demands, still hacking and wheezing. Skye makes a mental note to yell at Fitzsimmons once Ward’s done chewing her out.

“Well, you know, got to keep your reflexes up—“ she begins lamely when Ward’s facial expression suddenly _shifts_.

His angry face goes lax, as if all his brain processes have stopped. He’s suspended in motion, for a moment, and then reboots—to a friendly, open smile. Skye boggles. “Er, Ward?”

“Skye!” Ward beams. “Skye! Skye!”

“That’s my name, buddy,” Skye laughs nervously, and looks at the four corridors she could escape into. She begins to slowly back away from Ward, who has clearly lost his mind or something.

“Skye!” Ward exclaims happily, and in his rush to get to Skye, knocks over his Jenga tower before lunging at Skye’s feet. Skye falls, accordingly, and they end up as a heap on the floor, Ward’s frame enclosing hers. Woah, pecs, Skye thinks before she can stop herself.

“Ward, get off, Jesus—“

Ward _hugs_ her. “Skye,” he says again. “I really like you, Skye. Really really like you.”

“That’s great, buddy,” Skye chokes out underneath 150+ pounds of muscle. “I…like you too. Just not when you’re on top of me.” He shifts, or something, and Skye fights to keep her mental priorities in check. _So_ not the time to be reminded of her libido.

Skye hears the faint pit-pat sound of footsteps coming closer on the carpet. “Fitzsimmons?” She asks hopefully.

Just her luck: it’s Coulson. “Ward, Skye, I was wondering if—“ Coulson steps into the lounge, looks at them for a moment, and sighs. “You’ve just cost me a hundred dollars,” he chides, mostly looking at Skye, “so make sure to clean up any body fluids when you’re done.” With that frankly scarring comment, he then proceeds to leave.

“Wait, no—Coulson!” Skye calls, grunting a bit as Ward _nuzzles_ her. “This isn’t what it looks like!” She is, per usual, ignored.

Skye returns her attention to the main problem of Ward lying right on top of her. “Okay, buddy, you’ve got to get off,” she mutters, shoving at his shoulder.

“Skye?” Ward gets up a bit, inquisitive. “You don’t like me?” He wibbles a bit, and Skye is struck with the horrifying thought that Ward might actually cry.

That alone might cause her brain to break. “FITZSIMMONS!” Skye hollers, and watches with a mixture of relief and embarrassment as they come running from their lab (undoubtedly where they were watching, the jerks) and give her these smug little grins.

“I see you’ve gotten over your tiff with each other!” Fitz proclaims, looking very pleased with himself.

“What? No! What the hell did you put in that powder?” Skye demands, craning her neck upwards to glare at them.

“Really, nothing bad,” Simmons assures her. “I just…well, you know, I was thinking of ways to make people friendlier, and then I realized I was going about it all wrong! So instead, I thought of things that _are_ friendly, and how to make Ward more like them!” She rocks back on her heels, visibly satisfied with her work. Still beneath Ward, Skye stares at Simmons, slack-jawed. Slowly, Skye connects the dots.

“Something that’s really friendly…” Skye thinks of Ward’s weird way of talking, the spray bottle…”You turned him into a _dog_?!”

“Well, not turned into, technically—he’s still humanoid,” Fitz gestures at Ward, who seems blissfully uninterested in their conversation and instead continues to hug Skye (which is nice, in its own being-hugged-by-a-hot-piece-of-ass kind of way). “He just…processes a bit more like one. Or a lot more like one.”

“He _is_ very friendly,” Simmons says, like that somehow makes it all better. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“No! I mean, yes,” Skye quickly backtracks at Fitzsimmons’ combined sadface, “but I wanted him to just be…more receptive to me. Not like…slavishly over me. Like a dog.” She peers at Ward cautiously, who still seems very content just to lie on top of her. “Which he is now.”

“It will wear off in a couple of hours,” Fitz soothes. “But until then…why not enjoy it?”

“I’m supposed to enjoy this?” Skye asks. Maybe she would if she wasn't  _getting her windpipe crushed by him_.

Simmons nods. “Why not take advantage of the situation?” she suggests, and Skye tries very hard not to think about the implications of that, or Simmons’ grin. “At any rate, Fitz and I have to go see Agent Coulson about a deal.”

“If you’re betting on what I think you are, you haven’t actually won anything yet,” Skye says, but they ignore her, already heading off to Coulson's office. Those jerks.

“Skye?” Ward asks, somewhat pathetically.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Skye pats him on the head. He’s starting to grow on her like this, even if it is a little (or a lot) disturbing. “You’ll be right as rain in a little bit. In the meantime though, mind climbing off?”

* * *

 

After lots of puppy eyes from Ward, Skye manages to convince him to get off and relax on the couch with her. He’s got his head in her lap (which is pretty cute, or bizarre, or both) and is babbling at her. “Skye, Skye, Skye, I really like you. Really really like you.”

Skye is abruptly and forcefully reminded of the truth serum incident. She frowns and pokes him in the ribs. “You aren’t pretending, are you?” she asks sternly. “Because I'll never live this down if you're acting.”

He gives her a puzzled look and rubs his nose against her thigh. Ugh, he’s disgustingly attractive. He mumbles something into her leg and Skye feels the vibration go up to her hips. She shivers, involuntarily. “W-what was that, buddy?”

“Skye,” Ward says happily.

Skye squints at him suspiciously. She’s pretty sure he isn’t faking it this time—after all, imagine Ward doing this consciously. Skye holds back a laugh at the thought. And besides, Fitzsimmons are…more or less trustworthy, if a bit erratic. They have to know what they're doing, after all, even if little things like sexual harassment laws escape their notice. “Why don’t you like me like this in real life?” She asks him, petting his hair a little (only a little!).

“I do like Skye!” Ward protests.

“Aw, I’m sure you do,” Skye says, patting him absent-mindedly. “It’s that—you’re always so unfriendly. I mean, cut a girl some slack!”

He licks her hand in response. Skye tries to discreetly wipe it off the arm of the couch. “I respect you,” she tells him, earnestly, “it’s just that you don’t respect me.”

Ward stares at her, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Must be nice to be a dog, Skye thinks mournfully. “I wish you recognized my actual talents, not that I can’t punch a bag endlessly or do a hundred pushups.”

“Skye is talented,” Ward says. Skye considers it a bit pathetic that that’s the closest thing to a compliment she’s ever gotten from him.

“You’re so sweet,” Skye coos. The more she talks to dog-Ward the less she wants real-Ward back—she hasn’t gotten along with anybody this well in _so long_ , at least not since she stepped aboard the SHIELD bus. “When you go back to being…actual-you, I hope you remember this. And be less of a giant asshat.”

He snuggles further into her lap and falls asleep. Skye spends a few moments pondering the giant unfairness of the universe (there is a cute guy! in her lap! but she can’t do _anything_ ) before pulling out her cell to take a few pictures. A little blackmail never hurt anybody, Skye thinks.

* * *

 

Ward wakes up in a rush as he usually does. “God, my back,” he groans. He’s stiff all over—what the hell?

“I see you’re back,” he hears Skye say.

Ward lifts himself up only to realize (with no small amount of horror) that his head was in her lap. And his hand is on her thigh. And she’s…laughing at him. Of course. Ward jerks his hand off her leg and stands up, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the way. “What’s going on?” He demands, in alarm, before he looks around and sees that they’re in the lounge of the bus.

“You, uh…dropped off for a bit there,” Skye motions to her lap.

“Uh.” Ward can't imagine willingly falling asleep in Skye’s presence, let alone on top of her. (Well, maybe he can.) Wait…”Didn’t you spray something at me?” He frowns, and is rewarded with a guilty shift of her eyes.

“I think you might’ve been dreaming.” Before he can say something along the lines of “no, I’m pretty sure you spritzed me in the face like a dog,” she jumps up and says, “Sorry, gotta go…do stuff. Bye!” She dashes off in a decidedly rushed manner.

Ward squints after her. He’s got to teach her how to lie with some finesse. He begins to assess the situation (tumbled Jenga blocks, hazy memories) when Fitzsimmons, wonder of all wonders, emerge from their lab and immediately start laughing. “What?” Ward bites out.

“Oh, nothing…it’s just, ah.” The female one (Fitz? Fitz, right?) pauses for a bit. “Can I ask…”

The male half of their duo picks up where she left off. “Did you and Skye…” he makes some sort of horrifying hand gesture, “…you know?”

“What?! No!” They didn't, right? Ward's lack of memory pertaining to the last few hours suddenly becomes that much more pertinent. 

“Oh.” For some reason, the guy looks disappointed. “Hm. I see.”

“Would you want to, though?” The woman says tentatively.

“Wha—no, I…I wouldn’t…” Ward looks around for an escape route. Was this pair always so frightening?

“There’s no shame in it!” The woman reassures. “I mean, we’re all, healthy, red-blooded mammalian creatures with all the appropriate organs, oh except if you’re—“

“What Jemma means to say,” the guy interjects (oh, so he must be Fitz), “is that we could help you. If. You were interested.”

“I’m, I’m really not…”

“No, no, don’t even worry about it!” Simmons fishes out a black tube out of the pockets of her white lab coat. “Why don’t you hold on to this, hm? If you ever decide to…you know…”

“Just dissolve it in water and let it permeate her skin,” Fitz explains, taking the tube from Simmons and handing it to Ward. Doesn’t it say “HIGHLY TOXIC” on the label, Ward thinks nervously.

“Have fun now!” They say in sync, and stride off, whispering to each other all the while. Something about bets and ethical behavior. Whatever, they're Coulson's problem.

Ward considers the bottle. It would be wrong, of course—completely so. But...maybe just in case. You never know, right? Self-convincing complete, Ward tucks the vial into his jean pocket and walks away.


End file.
